


The Thoroldian Kiss

by TheLostPocket



Series: Exploits Across Edil-Amarandh [2]
Category: Pellinor - Alison Croggon
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Library Sex, Romance, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27175816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLostPocket/pseuds/TheLostPocket
Summary: Post-quest, Maerad and Cadvan take a more enjoyable tour across Edil-Amarandh and find themselves in Busk, where Cadvan becomes caught up in some ancient scrolls. Maerad, meanwhile, gets chatting with some of the Bards of Busk and comes up with a plan to remind him where his attention ought to lie.
Relationships: Cadvan of Lirigon/Maerad of Pellinor
Series: Exploits Across Edil-Amarandh [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055378
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Thoroldian Kiss

It was a cool summer evening in Busk, and all around the city people were marking the most of the pleasant weather in typical Thoroldian manner; through drinking and dancing and arguing – but most especially through drinking. Groups of people, all attached to emptying wine glasses, could be seen everywhere – on balconies, through their flung-open doors, spilling out of taverns, even on the rooftops, their rowdiness combining to create a low, friendly buzz audible from even the remotest outreaches of the city. It was this buzz, drifting in on the warm evening breeze, that filled Cadvan’s ears as he worked, an unpleasant reminder of what he was missing out on. 

Cadvan had been in the School of Busk’s Library since the morning – in fact, he had been rotting away in the same scroll-room all day, only leaving to charm a late lunch from the School cooks. It was richly decorated, if small; constructed of cool white stone, with a floor of white and blue mosaic, a stuccoed and painted ceiling, walls lined with scroll-shelves, and a small balcony that looked right out over to the bay, it was a rather pleasant space for learning. Or so Cadvan had thought several hours ago. Now, he was unutterably sick of it.

Cadvan rubbed his face tiredly, forcing his eyes to focus on the roll of script before him. He had thought he was doing so well, actually making headway, and that soon he might at least have something to offer the Busk scholars; but this one scroll had sent him to a screeching halt. The desk was littered with supplementary works, treatises on ancient languages, code-breaking, linguistics, geometry. . .and yet the script made hardly any more sense now than it had when he had first laid eyes upon it. It was maddening, utterly maddening. Cadvan, ever a victim to the call of the unknown, was transfixed. 

Gradually, hunched over the desk, Cadvan became aware that he was being watched. He looked up sharply, and a familiar figure detached itself from the dark doorway. Cadvan leaned back in his chair, his face softening. 

“Maerad,” he said. She was a welcome sight, not least because they had not seen much of one another over the past several days. Their arrival in Busk a week ago had been met, in typical Thoroldian style, with riotous celebration; an immense Welcome Feast at the School of Busk, dancing and drinking in the streets, and a million well-wishers who wanted to make their thanks known, always seeming to pull Maerad and Cadvan in different directions. After some weeks of travel through quiet roads, both Cadvan and Maerad had found it quite overwhelming; privately, both thought with some longing of certain intimate nights splayed out against the earth, of hot kisses pressed against cool flesh, and no one to mark their actions but the moon and the stars. Such pleasures seemed a long time ago now. 

“These translations are proving very difficult to puzzle out.” Cadvan said with a small, apologetic smile “For all my pains, I have deduced that the author was either a genius so deeply knowledgeable in the Norloch and early Annarean alphabets, Gaerdic runes, Pikkian hatch-code _and_ Ancient Zarzhi that he could use them all interchangeably – or he was a fool who knew next to nothing at all about any of them and I’m making constellations from fish-scales.”

As Cadvan spoke, Maerad had stepped further into the room. Now at last she breached the narrow circle of candlelight around Cadvan’s desk, illuminating her face. It held a strange expression Cadvan had never seen before. Slightly alarmed, Cadvan gripped the arms of his chair, half-rising, but Maerad was at his side in an instant. 

“Shhh,” she murmured “no – stay.” 

Cadvan instantly obeyed. Under the weight of her gaze, to do otherwise seemed an impossibility. She stepped closer to him, so close her dress brushed his knee, and with her came the smell of the warm night air and sweet, heady spices. 

“Have you been out dancing?” Cadvan would dearly have loved to be out dancing with her. He felt a rush of distain for the dry, unnecessarily long old scroll before him and his ill-thought-through promise to help decipher it. 

“Yes,” Maerad responded. 

“And back before dawn?” he teased “This is not the Thoroldian way! You must try harder! Next time, I shall expect to find you passed out amongst the dock-ropes with the rest of your kin!” 

His teasing seemed to have no effect on her. She gazed down at him steadily, her expression unreadable. 

“I miss you.” she said. “I’ve been missing you.” Her voice, while not cold, held a strange detachment; she might have been commenting on the weather. Only her eyes gave away the weight of her feelings. They shone from her face, as if she had a fever. Cadvan, misreading her, reached out to take one of her hands within his own, rubbing it comfortingly. 

“I know, My Love,” he said quietly “things do seem to have gotten out of hand, haven’t they? I thought infamy was bad enough, but I find I do not bear the weight of all this adoration as I once could.” he offered her another weak smile, which again she did not return. 

“You seem tired.” She continued in that same casual tone. Cadvan was becoming confused. Her eyes seemed to be burning a hole through him.

“I am tired.” he found himself responding. “I can. . . scarce keep body and. . . soul together.” 

Slowly, deliberately, Maerad brought up Cadvan’s hand and pressed a kiss against his fingers, and his knuckles, and the point of his racing pulse. Her lips were hot and soft. All breath left Cadvan’s body. 

“Perhaps I can help,” Maerad murmured against his skin. Cadvan, feeling he was finally beginning to understand her mood, turned the hand that was still in Maerad’s grasp, cupping her cheek within his palm. Briefly, just for a moment, she leaned her face into him, her eyes fluttering closed in an expression of deep tranquillity; and a wash of tenderness flushed over Cadvan. How he loved this woman. Why had he holed himself up in a dusty library when he had had such sweetness waiting for him, and a rich summer to enjoy?

Then Maerad’s eyes opened once more and all thoughts of sweetness fled from Cadvan’s mind. Never had he seen an expression of such dark, untamed desire on Maerad’s face; he was almost taken aback. But before he could speak, before he could even think what it was he wanted to say, Maerad was kissing his palm, then taking his thumb into her mouth – sucking it – and releasing it with a quick peck that was practically prudish. A shudder ran through Cadvan’s entire body. 

“Do you want me to stop?” she murmured, doing the same thing with his index finger. 

“No,” Cadvan breathed immediately. He had no idea what she was doing – but he most certainly did not want her to stop. As soon as Maerad and Cadvan had commenced that more physical aspect of their relationship, Cadvan was very aware that he was, once again, in the role of teacher. This did not particularly faze him – in fact, it was often a great joy to him, to know that he could show Maerad a whole new world of pleasures, that they could experience them together – but he did find that, in some aspects of lovemaking, Maerad still retained some of the timidness of their early days. Cadvan was sure to always be patient, open and gentle, to encourage her to communicate her needs as and when she felt them. In this they were making some little headway, but still Maerad rarely reached out to him first – something which had little to do with Cadvan and more with Maerad’s own uncertainty within herself. This, Cadvan knew, would change over time as she came to know her own desires and how to communicate them. Still, he had not been expecting _this_. 

Maerad continued her slow, careful kiss-and-sucking process with the rest of his fingers. Without him quite realising, Cadvan’s other hand had found its way to her waist, where his thumb was pressing circles into the fabric of her dress. His mind was already skipping several minutes ahead, thinking up any number of scenarios for them; he could stand up and press her back against the wall, burying his head in her neck, her hair, her breasts; he could drag her down to the floor with him, covering her body with his own, earning the carpet burns they wouldn’t quite regret in the morning; or he could clear the cluttered desk with one sweep of his arms and have her there, ancient scroll be damned – oh, yes, he liked the sound of that. He went to stand, plan in place, but Maerad’s hands pushed him down. 

“No,” she said again “stay.” 

And then, to his amazement, she knelt down before him, hot palms resting on his knees. Instinctively, he opened them wider, but it seemed that wasn’t enough; with a firm jerk from behind the knees, Maerad yanked him further down the chair and wriggled between his thighs. Cadvan, now so reclined that he was looking at the ceiling, gasped. Maerad’s hands trailed up his legs, his thighs, skimming – Cadvan let out another pant – over his groin and up his laid-out torso. 

Cadvan, like Maerad, was clad in the typical Thoroldian summer garb; light-weight, loose trousers, a cool linen under-shirt and, atop that, a wide-sleeved linen tunic that fell to just above his knees. The tunics were secured by long lines of buttons which were secured from the throat or chest down to the hips, and from there the two front flaps of the garment were allowed remain open. The purpose of this was multi-fold; the flaps created a pleasing line on the body, cutting away to reveal the trousers, which were often of a contrasting colour to the rest of the outfit; they also allowed a little more air-flow to cool the body; and finally but, Cadvan suspected, most importantly, the open flaps and full backs of the tunics flared out to magnificent effect when dancing. 

Now, he realised he had missed something from that list. As Maerad’s fingers crept over his hips, he realised another great advantage of Thoroldian fashions was how very easy they were to remove. Her fingers slipped underneath his tunic. 

“Is this ok?” she murmured. Cadvan could only nod, caught between watching her and staring at the ceiling. Her hands continued. He felt the buttons of his tunic popping undone, undershirt riding up, exposing his skin to the cool air. With each button, Maerad placed a kiss against his torso – now his sternum – his chest – his throat. Finally, the tunic hanging open, Maerad’s lips found their way to that sensitive spot behind his ear, along his jaw – and to his mouth. 

Whilst Maerad had conducted her journey up his body, Cadvan had been paralysed, as if one move would make her would disappear like a puff of candle-smoke. But as soon as her lips touched his, Cadvan came alive. His arms wrapped around her, compressing her against the length of him, hands clutching at her back. How had he not realised how much he wanted this, how much he needed this? Suddenly everything else he had been doing over the last week seemed a waste of time – only now was he finally doing what he was meant to. He deepened their kiss. Even the desk seemed out of the question – he would have her right here, right now, right on this very chair, he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t take it anymore – 

Maerad pulled away. The expression of confused disappointment on Cadvan’s face was almost comical – for the first time since entering the room, Maerad smiled. 

“Maerad?” 

“Shhhhh.” she said, eyes shining with mischief. “Stay.” 

She extracted herself gently but firmly from his grasp. Cadvan realised that in his passion, he had yanked Maerad rather awkwardly over his hips, where he had been blindly grinding against her leg. Now, as she slithered back down to her knees, Cadvan became painfully aware of the delicious, sensitive tightness against his trousers. Instinctively, he gripped the arms of the chair, looking beseechingly at the ceiling. 

Maerad, however, did not seem to be in a merciful mood. As she had made her trail of kisses up Cadvan’s torso, she had brought with it his thin undershirt – this she pushed up a little higher up his chest, a look of concentration on her face. She seemed to be attempting some estimate or prediction. With a few more seconds of concerned faffing, which did much to baffle the increasingly restless Cadvan, she seemed satisfied and went in for his trousers. 

And suddenly Cadvan was in familiar territory once more. He surmised that Maerad must have had the same idea as him – that she couldn’t wait to walk all the way to the bedroom, and didn’t much fancy the carpet-burns, so would have him right there on the chair. He reached to help her – but his hands were immediately slapped away. Maerad looked at him with something approaching anger.

“No,” she said sternly “you must stay there – stay still. Tell me if you want me to stop – but if not, stay _still_.” 

Cadvan, thinking she might have a bit of a job balancing on the chair on her own, merely nodded. Clearly, she had some sort of plan. 

However, he was _not_ expecting what she did next. 

After a few seconds of tugging at his trouser-front, the fabric finally gave way and Cadvan sprung free, red and throbbing. He let out a relieved breath – then settled in to watch. He always loved watching the moment when Maerad would take him inside her, seeing _and_ feeling himself sink into her hot, wet folds. He anticipated the fresh delight of seeing Maerad stand and hitch up her skirt, of her gently navigating her way over his hips – of her reaching down to grasp him, guiding him between her legs.

But Maerad did none of that. She did not clamber to her feet, but remained on her knees before him, fingers clutching his thighs – and rather than pull up her dress, she leaned forwards and stared kissing the soft exposed flesh of lower abdomen. Cadvan shuddered – for this was a new sensation entirely. He could feel her hot lips inching further down, closer and closer, until her cheek was brushing against him, so hyper-sensitive he flinched. 

“Maerad,” he gasped, but whatever he had been about to say was drowned out by a low moan. Maerad had ceased her kissing and, instead, taken the entirety of him into her mouth, sucking him like she had his fingers. She sucked again, her head dipping as if she were bobbling for apples, and Cadvan let out another strangled cry. 

“Maerad,” he said with a voice that didn’t quite sound his own “what are you doing?” 

She removed her lips from him with a wet popping noise. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

The sight of her peering up at him innocently, lips red and swollen, was almost enough to undo him. 

“By the Light!” Cadvan cried “I would do anything – no! Do not stop!” 

Maerad did not need telling twice. This time, the noise that came from Cadvan’s mouth was not strangled or shocked, by weak with pleasure. He leant back in the chair, eyes shut, letting waves of pleasure push through him, gently increasing with each bob of Maerad’s head – but, after only a short while, Maerad stopped. Cadvan looked up in surprise, feeling those sweet sensations still fizzing between his legs and through his abdomen. 

“Maerad?” 

She was leaning across his leg, reaching for the near-full glass of wine sitting on his desk. She took a long gulp, cheeks flushed, and shot him an amused look. 

“It’s thirsty work,” she said, as if reciting something, then handed him the glass. Cadvan accepted it gratefully, taking a long sip, as Maerad took the opportunity to quickly shimmy his trousers all the way down his legs. Cadvan felt exposed, vulnerable, but not unpleasantly so – he looked around almost smugly at the room they were in. It was not terribly deep within the library, the double doors opening directly onto the main corridor that cut through the centre of the building, and thus throughout the day had enjoyed some little traffic. At this time of night, it was unlikely that anyone else would come wandering through; but, still, it felt dirty and illicit. And exciting. Without hesitation, Maerad dove back in – at the same time, something pulled gently Cadvan’s testicles, sending a thrill of pleasure through him. He slammed a fist against the chair arm, swearing, and once more Maerad stopped. 

“That feels. . . unbelievable.” Cadvan said hoarsely “Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop.” 

Maerad obeyed, picking up the pace. Cadvan felt like he was dissolving, like his body was disintegrating into liquid and he would soon slide off the chair into a pool on the floor. He felt flushed all over, and sweaty, and he had no control over the noises he was making, and he didn’t care, didn’t care if everyone on the street below or the next balcony or the next town could hear him. His whole body was tensing like a coil waiting to spring, his abdomen shaking with it, and Maerad was still sucking him, still tugging and stroking at his hard testicles, still gripping one of his thighs. Cadvan had no idea what he was saying, what language he was speaking in, whether he was making sense, he just knew it was coming, that _he_ was coming, that something incredible was about to happen, so soon, so close –

With a cry, he burst. A storm of ecstasy cascaded through Cadvan’s entire body. He felt himself contracting, shaking, spurting hot, sticky seed into something warm and soft. And at the same time, he was suffused with a dizzying, inescapable feeling of. . . relief. . . almost of homecoming, like he had just arrived somewhere familiar after a long absence. He felt, for a moment, such a strong sense of safety and belonging, of sweet vulnerability, that tears welled in his eyes. 

Slowly the spasms eased, and the ecstasy faded, leaving him drained and exhausted, like a wrung-out wash-cloth, hanging limp in the chair. He blinked hazily and saw that Maerad was watching him with a pleased expression, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. She smiled at him, then looked away a little self-consciously. 

“I made a bit of a mess,” she murmured, looking down “you caught me by surprise and I wasn’t quite ready.” Slowly, feeling as if even this would be too much for him, Cadvan raised his head from the back of the chair. He peered down at his lap. A thick, milky substance was splattered over his lower abdomen, sticking a little in the wiry trail of black pubic hair. Cadvan chuckled, his body still buzzing pleasantly. Realising the wine glass was still hanging precariously from his fingers, Cadvan took a luxuriant sip, utterly unfazed. Maerad dabbed worriedly at his lap. 

“Let me handle that,” Cadvan said, gently snatching the handkerchief from her hand “here, have some wine.”

Maerad gave over without complaint, swilling the wine around her mouth for a few moments before swallowing. She had sat back on her heels and was resting one hand on Cadvan’s thigh, atop of which she leant her chin. She took another serene sip from the wine glass. 

“Thoroldian wine for Thoroldian lovemaking,” she mused “how fitting.”

Cadvan, finishing up, tossed the soiled kerchief into the waste basket nearby and fixed Maerad with a thoughtful, if still slightly misty, look. 

“Thoroldian lovemaking?” he queried. Maerad nodded, but did not speak, herself seeming lost in thought. “Alright, Maerad the Unpredictable, what do you mean, ‘Thoroldian lovemaking’?”

“’The Thoroldian Kiss’,” Maerad said, as if her meaning were clear.

“I’ve been kissed by many Thoroldians – oh, this is ridiculous, come here –” he quickly pulled Maerad from the floor, gathering her close to his chest and letting her wriggle against him happily “– I’ve been kissed by many Thoroldians, but none of them have kissed me like _that_.” Said Cadvan. 

A quirked eyebrow. Amusement. “’Many Thoroldians’?” 

“Oh, Maerad, you know what they’re like – any excuse for a peck on the cheek. I pass someone the bread basket at the dinner table and come away with pink cheeks.” He said dryly. “But _those_ and _that_ are very different things.”

“Oh! Yes, well, of course,” Maerad snorted “those aren’t, well, you know, a _Thoroldian_ Kiss.” Cadvan still had a blank look on his face “Oh, you must know! _The Thoroldian Kiss_! Meeting the Morning. Fellatio. You must know, Cadvan!” 

“You’ve been spending far too much time at the dockside taverns!” Cadvan laughed. 

“So. . . you’ve never done this before? Not with. . .” Maerad had been about to say ‘not with Nerili’, but stopped herself. She would not talk of Cadvan’s ex-lovers while in his arms. But Cadvan shot her a knowing look. 

“Not with anyone,” he said deliberately “Thoroldian or no! Ever you shock me, Maerad!” 

“Kabeka told me that men often enjoy it.” She muttered a little defensively. Cadvan immediately pulled her close, pressing his forehead against hers.

“And she wasn’t wrong,” Cadvan said, then grinned “that was. . . I’ve never experienced pleasure like that. Thank you, Maerad. I would. . . _certainly_ not be averse to doing that again. But. . . am I to understand you’ve been discussing our sex life with the Bards of Busk?” 

“No,” Maerad said earnestly “it just. . . came up in conversation – the arts of lovemaking in general, that is, not our lovemaking _specifically_ – and, well, I got interested and I asked a few questions and Kabeka answered them. You’re not angry, are you?” 

“After what you’ve just done?” Cadvan laughed “I don’t think I’ll be able to be angry at you for the rest of the week!” he cupped his hands around her face, stroking her cheek tenderly “In all seriousness, I do not mind you discussing such matters, so long as it is in private and your confidant is. . . discreet. I know you need friends to confide in with such matters, and you may not always wish to come to me first. A woman’s wisdom far outshines the most learnéd Bard’s!” 

Relief flooded Maerad’s expression. 

“So, this was one of Kabeka’s recommendations, eh? Perhaps I should send her a bottle of wine, to thank her!” 

“Perhaps I could do it for you.” Maerad said and started to clamber off Cadvan’s lap. He shimmied up in the chair, frowning. 

“What?” 

Maerad blinked at him. 

“I cannot stay,” she said, as if it were obvious “they expect me back. I said I’d only be gone for a short while.” 

Cadvan spluttered. Before him, unfussed, Maerad straightened her dress, checking it over for stains. Once she established that she was undirtied, she turned to Cadvan with a small smile. Finally, he found his voice. 

“Maerad! Do I hear rightly? You were discussing the intimate arts with Kabaka – and, I presume, at least some other Busk Bards – and became so inspired that you immediately fled their company to try their advice first-hand. So you come here and. . . and _Thoroldian Kiss_ me until I’m beyond use or ornament, and then flee back to the tavern to share your review?” 

“Well, I was hardly so transparent – I waited awhile, until the conversation had moved along – and there will be no sharing of reviews! – but, yes, that’s about right.” Maerad said brightly “Are you coming?” 

“Coming?” Cadvan repeated “I think it’s a bit late for that! ‘ _Coming_ ’! I can barely stand – I’m exhausted – I’m – I’m –” Cadvan’s eyes slid to the empty wine glass on the desk “– I am quite thirsty, come to think of it.” 

Maerad gave Cadvan a few moments to make himself seemly, and then they trekked the short distance to the _Copper Mermaid_. Their entrance was met with a roar of welcome, and Maerad was immediately drawn back to the table of their close friends as if she had never left. She was, Cadvan thought, becoming more and more Thoroldian with every moment they stayed in Busk. He himself headed to the bar, where he ordered some food and a generous amount of purple-red wine. When he sat down beside Maerad at the table, he covertly passed a bottle to Kabeka, who was seated to his lift. She shot him an amused look, but neither of them said anything.

**Author's Note:**

> There we have it, everyone! Our favourite Bard's first foray into oral - and, really, i think we all know he needs it. Despite the unashamed self-gratification that was this story, i did make decisions based on what we know of Maerad and Cadvan's characters (it wasn't an entirely thoughtless process) so if you've any criticisms level them in the comments.


End file.
